Grieving
by magfreak
Summary: Months after Matthew's death, a moment of shared loss between Mary and Tom, who chose to leave Downton for Liverpool with his brother.


He steps into the large room as if stepping into the past, uneasy and wishing he didn't have to. Amid the fancy tablecloths and shiny adornments of the hotel's tea room, he spots her. She's alone, wearing purple. _Half-mourning_, he thinks, laughing uneasily at the arbitrary nature of the rituals of her class. From the way she is staring blankly at the empty space in front of her to the shadow of sadness across her face, he can tell that her grief is as fresh as his sometimes still feels, now two years on. He recognizes something of himself in her. He is suddently glad that she is here.

He approaches carefully. "Mary?"

She looks up and smiles. He never knew Mary terribly well, but even he can recognize that though small, the smile is genuine.

"Hello, Tom," she says. She moves to stand but he waves her off and sits down on the other side of the small table.

For a moment, neither says much. The silence is enough to acknowledge their loss—_losses_.

After a minutes or so Mary sighs. "I never thanked you for your letter. Matthew . . . you were . . . " Another sigh, a subtle effort to compose herself. "He thought you a dear friend. I'm glad to know you thought of him in the same way. It was gauche of me not to respond. I hope you didn't think anything of it."

Tom offers a small smile. "Of course not." He hesitates for a moment, then speaks again, "I'm truly sorry, Mary."

Mary nods. Accepting the grief of others is a widow's lot. He knows this. She knows he knows, so she doesn't try to dress up her reaction. "Me too," she says finally.

Another moment of silence passes, and he reaches for the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out a small photograph. Sybbie is smiling brightly, wisps of what looks like will be curly hair are held back from her face with a small ribbon.

He hands it to Mary, who smiles again, more brightly than before. "She's beautiful."

"Like her mother," he offers.

Mary looks at the photograph as if looking for something inside it. "I'm anxious to see her."

Tom laughs. "She'd have made a right mess of this room. She's a good girl, but . . . on the rambunctious side."

Mary raises an eye brows. "Like her mother."

Tom clears his throat. "My cousin will be by with her first thing tomorrow. She's been talking up their visit to 'mammy's house' for a week."

"You could come too," Mary said. "The invitation is still open."

"I'll be there Friday and stay the weekend before we return. It's a bit hard getting away from work."

"How is the garage going? Still profitable, I hope."

Tom nods. "It is. Kieran can barely keep up." He pauses, then adds, "I don't work with him anymore."

Mary's brow furrows. "What?"

"I still help when I can, but I work in the office of the local MP."

Mary's eyes widen in shock. "But how?"

Tom laughs lightly at her disbelief. He supposes he doesn't blame her for it. "His right hand man came in with his motor once about a year ago. We got to talking politics and I offered my opinions a bit too liberally. We disagreed on much, but he said he liked my spirit. I mentioned having done newspaper work once, and he offered me a job answering the MP's mail, which I did for several months. Now, well . . . I just do what needs doing, I suppose, for his constituency. I've done some speech writing as well."

"Do you enjoy it?"

"Quite a lot, actually. It's never boring. He's not a big player in the grand scheme of things, but even if I'm not making wholesale changes to the government, I do feel like I'm helping people."

"I'm glad," she says and Tom can see that she means it. "Why didn't you mention it before?"

Tom shrugs. "Does it matter?"

"Matthew would have liked to know that you were doing so well."

Tom looks down. "I'm sorry I didn't. Before he . . . well, I suppose I thought it was best just to leave well enough alone."

Mary takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry if you didn't feel welcome."

"There's no need to apologize," Tom says.

"But there is," Mary replies, some urgency in her tone. "When you left with your brother, just after Sybbie's christening . . . well, I'm sure you remember it wasn't a happy departure."

Tom scratches the back of his head, and lets out a rueful laugh. "Sybil had just died, Mary. Nothing you or anyone could have said or done would have made it a happy departure."

"I know, but the way we all behaved—as if you owed it to us to stay. The things that mama and papa said . . . it wasn't their best moment. Even papa will admit that now."

Tom sighs. "When Cora told me what Sybil had told her, about not going back . . . Honestly, I barely remember any of it now. I was griefstricken at the time. I'd lost my country and my wife in a matter of weeks. I couldn't make heads or tails of what I wanted, but she was acting out of grief too. In her own way she was doing what she thought was best to honor Sybil's memory and to protect Sybbie."

Mary turns to look out the window over their table. "Your departure made no sense to me then, but I understand now how that must have felt—being told what's best for you at every turn . . . being told that you were letting down her memory."

Tom smiles sadly. "I can assure you Mary nothing that came out of your mouth or your mother and father's—or your grandmother's for that matter—was anything compared with the self-doubt I was drowning in at the time."

Mary holds her breath for a moment. "Does it get better?" She asks, her voice cracking slightly.

A sheen of tears comes over Tom's eyes. "No." He reaches over and puts his hand over Mary's and squeezes slightly before letting go. "But it gets easier. I'm not sure how to explain the difference."

Mary wipes a small tear off her cheek. "Sometimes, I wish I could leave, but even if I could I'd be too afraid to go."

"Well, our old flat over the garage is available."

A loud laugh bursts forth from Mary so suddenly that Tom momentarily thinks it's a sob. Mary squeezes her eyes shut trying to keep herself composed, and Tom can't help but laugh with her.

"Sorry," he says. "I know that's a sore point."

"It's all right," Mary says, taking a deep breath, the laugher having served as a necessary catharsis. "You're in a proper house now, and I do appreciate the sentiment if not the lodgings."

"Will you hate her if I tell you that Sybbie misses her old room."

Mary smiles. "No more than I hated Sybil for saying she wished she could sleep in the stables when we were young."

Tom laughs.

"So is Liverpool home now?"

Tom sighs. "I think so. Kieran's married and starting a family, so he's well settled. Ireland will always be there when we need her."

"So will Downton," Mary says. "Please know that. I want George and Sybbie to be close, especially now. I can't imagine that he'll have siblings, but he'll have her, won't he?"

"He will."

They sit silently for several minutes, until Tom speaks again. "Sybil had spoken to me about the future too . . . the day she died. We talked of the future often. I know it felt like I was abandoning our path forward in coming here, but . . . working on cars . . . there's a comfort in it that I needed at the time. And I've learned that sometimes you have to go back to go forward."

"She would be very proud of you," Mary says quietly. "Rather … she _is_."


End file.
